


Predator

by calrissian18



Series: Wolf & Boy: A Division of Cat & Mouse, Inc. [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Asshole Stiles, Canon Compliant, M/M, Post Nogitsune, Rough Sex, Smoking Stiles, Wolfed Out Sex, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 06:54:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1735277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He proves he isn’t prey.  He becomes as much a predator as he can.  He becomes everything Peter’d hoped he’d be when he first grabbed Stiles’ wrist in that parking garage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Predator

**Author's Note:**

> I should have said earlier, but huge shout-out to the lovely [Barbayat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbayat/pseuds/Barbayat), who prereads all of these for me, without whom I would probably never post because I don't trust that Peter dude one bit.

It takes Stiles longer than it should to realize the power differential between the two of them is tipped decidedly out of his favor.  Longer than it should a sheriff’s boy.  Longer than it should someone Peter thinks of as intelligent, thinks of as worth putting his dick in.  Longer because fucking himself out of his own misery takes precedence over the control Peter has over him.

Peter fucks him a little harder, digs a little deeper, until Stiles is enough himself, enough in his own mind to realize their dynamic.

His draw to Peter is a _need_.  Peter’s draw to him is a curiosity, a fascination, an interest—and likely a passing one.  Stiles never would have approached him out of anything less than necessity.  He’d tipped his hand the moment they’d started this and only is he now beginning to realize how vulnerable he is.  Peter’s watched him, writhing on his mattress, sloppily fingering himself open, fisting his cock and unable to get off until Peter trails claws down his sides deep enough that he leaves slices in the skin, bites the fleshy inside of his thigh until he tastes blood.

He needs the pain to accept the pleasure and Peter is the bringer of the both.

* * *

Once Stiles knows it, he can’t let sleeping dogs lie.  He gets more violent, more corrosive, and it’s a futile anger that does nothing but frustrate him and amuse Peter.  Then he plots.  He proves he isn’t prey.  He becomes as much a predator as he can.  He becomes everything Peter’d hoped he’d be when he first grabbed Stiles’ wrist in that parking garage.

The next time he slips through Stiles’ window, the scent is so strong it nearly chokes him.  The smell of his own charred flesh is directly correlated to it and he feels himself fall back a step.

Stiles turns in his computer chair, smirking.  He stands, backs Peter up against the window and says, slipping his hand down the front of Peter’s pants, cupping his soft cock, “It’s called ‘bonfire.’  I knew you’d like it.”

Using the memory of the fire, it’s lower, crueler than Peter ever would have expected him to go.  He knows it’s specific to him, that if this were Derek, he never would have stooped to this level.  It grimly pleases him that Stiles doesn’t sheathe his claws either.  He grabs Stiles’ wrist, squeezes until the bones creak, Stiles’ cock hot and hard against his hip, and he sneers.  “We don’t fuck here again until the scent’s completely faded.”

Stiles’ smirk doesn’t dampen in the slightest.  If anything, it grows.  “Aw, did I get to you, baby?” he snarks, mocking, vicious, momentarily victorious.

Peter lets him have it.  He won’t be so pleased with himself when he’s gone a week without being able to climax.

* * *

Peter’s right.

* * *

It goes from an arrangement to a game.  In the fullest sense of the word.  Something engaged in because both parties enjoy it, because both want to win.  It should worry him, that this is becoming something more than an obligation with the payoff of an orgasm but he’s too busy proving his superiority to a teenager.

Stiles shows up at the loft drenched in a body spray that has him _reeking_ of mango.  Peter shoves him in the shower, fucks him up against the tile, makes him smell like Peter and come.

* * *

Stiles’ next ploy is his most obnoxious and it isn’t just biological warfare against Peter, but the entire Pack.  Peter resists the urge to strangle him.  Well.  He means to.  It’s the first and only time he tightens his grip hard enough to make him pass out.

When Stiles comes to, it’s with a breathless laugh.  “Should’ve taken up smoking ages ago.”  He brackets Peter’s hips with his thighs.  “If I’d known it would get you this riled, I would’ve.”

Peter leans over him, picks up the cigarette pack off the nightstand and crushes it with a supernatural vise before throwing it out Stiles’ window.

Stiles leans up, bites hard on Peter’s earlobe and huffs out the words, “I have more, you know?”

* * *

He does.  Peter hates the stale ash smell more than he can put into words.  And Derek’s no better.  Stiles leans his head back against Derek’s couch, takes a deep drag and lets the smoke wind and coil above him.  The veins in his neck are thick, strong, his forearms and hands capable and surprisingly muscular.

The vice looks good on him if nothing else.

He rubs the side of his hand against his chin, smoke sunk into every stitch and skin cell.  Derek’s watching him just as closely as Peter, only he’s attempting to be more subtle about it.  And failing.  Stiles catches his gaze before it can fall away for a fourth time in as many minutes.  He sighs, confides, “I’m making a lot of mistakes.”

He ignores Peter altogether, ignores looking into the eyes of his biggest one.

There’s zero judgment in Derek’s voice when he agrees, “Yeah.”

* * *

Peter slips into Stiles’ bedroom window only to find the room empty of him.  It smells vaguely of smoke but, grotesquely, Peter’s becoming used to it.  He lays back on the bed that smells of nothing but his scent mixed with Stiles’ and lets his senses roam.  His ears prick at hearing his own name come out of Stiles’ mouth.  “Peter Hale and I are fucking.”

There’s a scuffing sound and a _loud_ silence before the sheriff says roughly, hoarse with surprise and distaste, “And I’m supposed to, what?”  It doesn’t seem to be rhetorical but Stiles offers no answer so he tries, “Accept that, let it go on, _congratulate_ you?” 

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits, quiet but also wholly unrepentant.  “I just don’t want to lie to you anymore, about anything.  I know it’s not smart and I don’t trust him, or even like him really, but being with him makes me feel like my skin belongs to me.  Letting him mark it means I’m in control of it.” 

His heartbeat stays steady and Peter wants to know more.  To sit him down, to ask him questions until he runs out of breath.  It shouldn’t matter what Stiles thinks of him.

It does. 

The sheriff sighs, uneasy, unhappy.  He doesn’t threaten violence or hide behind his badge, with a werewolf neither would mean much but Peter still would’ve expected it of him.  All he does is ask, “You’re being careful?”

“No.”

“Stiles—” he starts.

“But he’s not doing anything I don’t want him to do,” Stiles cuts him off, hard.  “He _won’t_ do that.”  His heartbeat trips and Peter sits up abruptly.  He doesn’t believe Peter won’t harm him, doesn’t believe Peter will back off when told to?

The sheriff’s sigh is heavier this time.  “You don’t trust him and yet you’re sure he won’t hurt you?”

Peter does hurt him.  What he wants to know is why Stiles thinks he’d ever do it without him asking for it.

“Not during sex,” Stiles agrees.  “Not in any way I haven’t asked him to.”

“You’re saying you’re not so sure that outside of sleeping with him that he wouldn’t harm you?”  The sheriff doesn’t exactly sound impressed. 

“Peter’s a survivor.  He’ll do what he has to.  Provided I don’t get in his way, I’m nothing more than a way to get his rocks off, not a target.”  Again, the trip.  He doesn’t believe it.

Peter’s hands clench at his sides, claws growing and digging into his own palms.

“And what would make you a target?”

“I suppose we’ll find out.”  He lets the conversation lull a moment before saying, “I know you don’t like this.  I didn’t expect you to but I’m not—this is kind of the best I can do right now.”

“Stiles—”

“Don’t hate me, okay?”  His voice shakes slightly.

There’s an explosive breath then, “Fuck, Stiles.  Of course I don’t—Come here.” 

They don’t speak again and Stiles trudges up the stairs after a long while.  He glances at the bed, closing the door behind him, and his expression sours.  “That was none of your business,” he says tartly.

“Actually it seemed like that was entirely my business.”

Stiles strips out of his overshirt, pushes on Peter’s chest until he can straddle his hips, and says tiredly, “Just fuck me.”

Peter runs the tip of a clawed finger down his neck.  “How?”

Stiles stands, unbuttons and kicks out of his jeans and boxers.  He crawls past Peter, flattens his chest into the bed, his t-shirt sliding halfway down, the cotton brushing the nubs of his spine incrementally.  He folds his arms over his back, wiggles them, says, “Like this.”

Peter fits a clawed hand around the meeting of Stiles’ wrists.  Ties him up without ropes, fucks him hard, fast, unrelenting, lets his pained grunts fill the silence between them.  Folds himself over Stiles’ back, catches their hands between the two of them and bites hard into his shoulder.

Stiles bucks hard at the feel of it, twists, gasps, “ _Fuck_.”  He comes hard, clenches around Peter and makes sure he follows.

Peter unclasps his grip from over his stacked wrists, joints stiff from how firmly he’d been holding on.  Stiles’ breaths come in choppy and his arms wobble and give out.  He turns his face against his pillow and sleeps.  In all they’ve done, Peter’s never seen it before this moment.  There’s no radical change—he snuffles, twitches, constant movement even in this.  The sleep deepens and those larger, active signs fall off.

His eyelashes still flutter on occasion, fanned against the rubbery skin under his eyes and it takes Peter that long to realize he’s watching Stiles sleep.  Stiles, who doesn’t trust him not to hurt him in ways he hasn’t asked for, but who will fall asleep in front of him.  Hypocritical little twerp.

Peter’s lip raises, disgusted that he cares, that he’s lingered so long, and he redresses, skin feeling tight.

* * *

It takes Peter nearly a month to realize what he’s been given in return for the confidence he gave Stiles.  And it takes having something else taken away to see it.  He corners Stiles in Derek’s kitchen when they’re alone, narrows his eyes, says incisively, “You’re afraid of me.”

Stiles shrugs, says blandly, “That’s not exactly new.”  But his eyes shift, don’t quite meet Peter’s.

Even without the outward expression of it, his heartbeat skips.  Peter indicates his chest, brows perked.  “Lie.”

Stiles’ face twists, goes calculating, and he purses his lips.  “Kate,” he says simply.  He licks his lower lip.  “You went fucking psychotic the last time she was alive and traipsing around Beacon Hills.  I know what you’re capable of and I know what your trigger is.”  He pulls in a deep breath, catches Peter’s widened gaze.  “Yeah, I’m scared to be alone with you and not in the fun way.”

Peter smirks, keeps it from looking uncertain.  “Do you need a declaration of some kind?” he mocks. 

Stiles snorts, shakes his head.  “I wouldn’t believe you even if you gave me one.  I can’t listen to your heartbeat so forgive me if I think you’re a manipulative shit who will do whatever’s necessary to get into my pants.”

Peter snarls, backs him into the counter.  “I’ve _never_ forced you,” he growls.

“I never said you would,” Stiles throws back angrily, “not physically.  I said manipulative.”

“You came to me.  Willingly.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh, runs a shaky hand through shaggy hair.  He licks his lip again, bites into it, and Peter knows where this is going, knows he doesn’t want to hear it.  Stiles says it anyway.  “You’re not fucking stable and neither am I.  We’re a fucking atomic bomb waiting to go off and maybe I’ve just finally realized how epically stupid this is.” 

Peter works his jaw.  Makes himself stop.  “Fine,” he says, unimpressed.  “We’ll consider our association finished then?” 

Stiles lets out a heavy breath, nods.  “Yeah, okay.”  His head jerks up when Peter starts to back off him.  “Will you still, if it comes to it—will you—?”

“Yes, Stiles,” he says tightly, flexing his claws, feeling fangs crowd his mouth.  “I’ll still kill you.”  His stare is electric blue when he snarls, “Get out before I prove it to you.”

Stiles offers him a long look, apology and judgment in it and gives a sharp jerk of his chin before leaving.

* * *

None of the others flinch away from him now, that’s what Stiles has given him.  He’s been domesticated by Stiles Stilinski, he realizes with a smirk.  Safe enough after fucking the Pack’s weakest link and not taking advantage of it to be trusted not to go on a second killing spree.  Trust, however marginal, and Pack, however loose the definition—he has both again.

None of the others flinch away from him now.  Just Stiles.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/), where I talk about the lame things I'm doing, the weird ideas I have and roll around on the floor indecisively. All for your viewing pleasure. *curtsies*


End file.
